


This Gloom that Set upon Us

by Guu



Series: Paper Windows [2]
Category: Supernatural
Genre: M/M, Paper Windows 'verse, Post-Canon
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-04-16
Updated: 2014-04-16
Packaged: 2018-01-19 14:27:35
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,023
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1473133
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Guu/pseuds/Guu
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Castiels existence is full of repetition these days. When it rains, he longs for nothing more than to be home.</p><p>---</p><p>Paper Windows: A collection of moments in Cas and Dean's post-Apocalyptic life, and the ratty little apartment they share in a city full of inoffensive unknowns.</p>
            </blockquote>





	This Gloom that Set upon Us

Cas' days often start with repetition. He wakes up at eleven, brushes his teeth, makes coffee, gets dressed, combs his hair when possible. Goes to work.

He takes a bus when it rains, often wondering if his designated driver has ever talked to Dean, or perhaps driven the same bus that Dean does. There are so many little things humans do that they don't know about others also doing. They cross paths with people who are connected to them in various ways, and never notice that their neighbour of three years is the same man running next to them at the gym, or that the lady on the street who they just whistled at is the same lady teaching maths to their cousin's kids.

Castiel may not believe in fate anymore, but he sure does like to watch it unfurl. He joins the dots when he can, trying to notice the little things humanity often takes for granted. He pays attention. He knows where to look.

The bus drive is barely five minutes long, and he gets to the supermarket ten minutes before his shift starts. The rain is light, and he walks under ledges and trees, feeling the occasional raindrop kiss his face. He doesn't mind the cold too much, but the water makes him uneasy. He doesn't like the heavy rain.

Mrs. Park is sitting at the cash register when he arrives. She's arguing about something or other with the same old customer that comes every other Friday to buy cabbage and onions, and to complain about the kimchi's price. Steve is waiting for Castiel in the staff room, eager to take his break: he has a strong addiction to tobacco and has gone a few hours without it. Castiel supposes he should understand; he has seen Dean stand dreadfully in their tiny balcony, defying the elements and the harsh winter weather to suck on his daily dose of nicotine. _Necessity is a powerful thing_ , Castiel thinks. He has seen it draw the worst out of men and gods alike.

"Hey, Cas," Steve says, amicably patting Castiel's back. Castiel frowns. He can't seem to get the hang of or the point of casual contact. He understands humanity in a general, wide sense, the way one understands how a bee hive works. He understands how a hand on the shoulder could indicate support, or how an embrace can demonstrate intimacy. Kisses, fervent touches, a light caress to show concern: Dean has taught him all of those. The finer points of both humanity and touch, however, elude him. 

"Steve," Castiel says, with a nod.

\--

Castiel's job is all about repetition, much as his mortal life has turned to be. Clean the fridges, clean the floor. Mop the break room. Replace the expired cans of pre-packaged food. He enjoys re-stocking the products the most. His head is often a noisy mess, and the mindlessness of the job allows him to put his jumbled thoughts in place.

Mostly, he thinks about Dean. Not because he misses him—if anything, he appreciates the hours they spend apart—but because, after all these years, Dean mesmerizes him still. Cas finds it difficult to think about Dean when in his presence, where all Cas can do is _feel_.

Feeling is overwhelming enough, and Cas needs to think. He's a strategist at heart. This is how he deals. God is in the details, and Cas used to be so vast, used to be so big.

\--

It's pouring by the time Castiel's shift ends, and he eyes the street warily. The air smells of wet dirt and humidity. Mrs. Park's daughter offers him a ride home, and for a moment Castiel is blinded by the familiar memory of leather against his back, of grease and oil, and of the beloved seats of a black car. He declines.

Instead, he runs all the way home. Gets water on his pants, his hair, his socks. It feels like a baptism of sorts. Castiel, the human. Castiel, the mortal. A new card carrying member of the Original Sin club.

Castiel runs through streets and roads with a piece of newspaper over his head, runs through green traffic lights.

He has a _home_ to run to now.

\--

"Hey there, Waterworld."

Dean is home, making a small dinner for two, and Castiel can't help but notice how tired he looks. He always looks tired these days—except maybe on Sundays, when they both spend entire mornings in bed—but Dean still smiles at Castiel when he gets home, still makes sure that he has something to eat before Dean leaves for his nightly shift ( _Tuesdays-Wednesdays-Fridays_ , Castiel recites to himself). This, too, feels like a repetition.

He walks straight into their little bathroom and takes a brief shower. When he comes out, there are warm burgers on the kitchen counter. 

Dean is already gone.

\--

Later (much later), Dean comes home smelling of smoke and rainwater. He makes little noise as he undresses, but Castiel knows his routine by now, and can almost visualize Dean's actions: how he toes off his shoes, and then slips out of his coat, carefully hanging his tie on the same hanger where his jacket goes. Dean will then brush his teeth, and wash his face. He'll absently rub at his knee when it aches.

There is this thing, however: when Dean turns the lights off and walks to the bed in the darkness, when he slides into bed with a yawn. He easily coaxes Cas' arms up so that Dean can wrap himself around him, and the press of Dean's skin against Castiel's own will always feel brand new.

The nose against the nape of Castiel's neck is tentative, shy even, and Cas turns around in the embrace, lets Dean hold him close.

"Hello, Dean," he slurs, as always, settling into the added warmth. Details like these, he thinks, are easier than others to understand.

Dean kisses Castiel's mouth, and Cas understands this form of communion the most.

\--

On Saturday, Cas wakes up at eleven. He brushes his teeth, makes coffee, gets dressed. Tries to comb his hair.

Goes to work.

 

**Author's Note:**

> Again, thank yous to Ella and Dusty who have been instrumental to the creation of this story ♥.


End file.
